9. The Pianist
The Pianist
I met Jason Howard the first day of my freshman year at university.
All of us first-year music program students were put in one room, egos inflated, because we were special enough to be chosen for the program, which was rigorous and notoriously difficult to get into.
The best of the best. Many of us would hope to garner recognition while still in undergrad, or that we’d be scouted, invited to join such and such prestigious orchestras, featured in publications, pushed ahead of our peers.
But before it became too cut-throat, we were a group of young adults, fresh out of high school, let loose in the world and pretending we weren’t intimidated by the size of it, wide-eyed and impressionable, too naive for our own good.
He stood at the front of the practice room with our professor. Introduced as our TA. I remember his arms were crossed, sitting on the edge of the table, gazing out over the crowd of incoming students. Honey-colored hair, broad shoulders, dark blue eyes that drew me in.
I’m not sure if he really noticed me that first day. I could be remembering it wrong. But a few weeks later, I finally caught his attention. I told myself that it was okay it took so long, there were a lot of students he had to assist.
To be fair, when I spoke to him after class, I really did need some advice on which etude to choose and showcase at the end of the semester. I wanted to introduce myself, because everyone knows it’s better to make a good lasting impression on your professors.
I saw how his eyes dipped, trailing down to my hips and back. I remember how his pupils dilated, his voice lowering an octave. “Come to my office hours.”
He was training for his doctorate, and the class was pretty much his to teach ninety percent of the time. Meaning our professor was an obstacle only on the few days he decided to show.
It hadn’t been my intention to get so close to Jason so quickly. But never would I have said no to his attention. I went with it, knowing it meant more guided practice, special treatment, even. At first I told myself that was the only reason why.
In less than two months he had me bent over his desk in between his classes.
I was putty under his fingertips. I didn’t care if any of the other students noticed—I’d linger by the window, or in my seat, until the classroom was completely clear, until it was only the two of us left.
Or I’d go straight to his office door, waiting for him to appear around the corner.
He’d always get this look in his eye when he spotted me that would send a thrill straight through my body, an electric shock I hadn’t felt before.
He didn’t kiss me the first time we were alone, and at the time I thought his restraint was out of respect for me, that there was some chivalrous inner struggle to protect my honor, because everyone knows hooking up with your professor, or your TA, is wrong.
He was older by only a few years. He wanted to help me.
He could see my potential. And it just so happened that a few chance meetings later, he wanted to fuck me. So I let him.
The class was twice a week. I made an excuse to see him almost every day.
And then the whole year passed, and I’d hardly gotten to know anyone else.
He told me he saw how hard I worked. He called me dedicated.
Sang my praises in between kisses. Promised to whisper my name in the ears of industry professionals, other musicians, directors.
He told me I was better than any other student, that I just ‘got it’ in a way they didn’t, and I believed him.
I became important to him. Or so I thought.
He couldn’t be bothered to hide that other girl’s name when it appeared on his phone screen one day. Her name—Britt—with her contact photo lighting up the whole screen. Her arm around his neck, her lips on his cheek.
I remember the way he stared down at me, as if daring me to react.
I didn’t. Not right away, at least. I didn’t cry, or shout, or slap him. Because the girl in that picture could have been a friend. An old high school friend. Totally platonic. Right?
It’s his face I see right before I open my eyes to the morning sunlight, and I wonder if his ghost followed me day in and day out, long before I ever stepped into Beauchene manor.
In the evening, Henri and I linger in the practice room as the sinking sun casts vermillion tendrils through the glass panes of the windows. He’s exhausted from his lessons today, so I decide that tonight he’s earned a break, even if his parents are so worried about his progress.
Besides, I haven’t had much of a chance to practice myself.
My mornings have been spent here with him, and the few hours I have alone in the afternoon I’ve been acquainting myself with the house, finding new corners to tuck into and read, making friends with the staff, before I have to look after Henri again.
And with the odd occurrences that have already happened, my own practicing has been neglected.
I know the keys intimately. Fingers skating across, remembering the beginning of Rachmaninoff’s Elegie.
Distantly, I’m aware of Henri watching from his seat on the couch, his book falling in his lap.
If I am to remain his teacher, the Beauchenes can’t doubt my ability. The confidence I feel, the second-nature of the signatures, the melody in one hand and the harmony in the other—they have to feel it, too. They have to know I am capable.
They have to know there’s no other option but to keep me around.
By the time the end date of my contract nears, they have to sign me on again. They have to.
Something pushed them to give me this job, and I have to make sure that something doesn’t lead them to someone else.
The song begins quietly, deep notes resonating through the instrument.
The barest tapping of the keys from the right hand, my left travelling back and forth across the keyboard.
I take it slower than it’s written, falling back into the routine of it.
Jason helped me with this piece. I remember which measures I used to stumble over, which measures never quite clicked until, of course, the night before the recital.
Like traveling through time, transporting myself to the past, for a moment, I am her again.
Five years younger, with the naivete of someone who hasn’t felt the bleakness of the world.
Yet it’s different from the last time I played it, something fundamentally changed since my fingers last danced this dance.
Whole minutes have passed in a blur. Silence rings through the room, louder even than the notes from before. The ghost of that final note echoes in my ears.
And I can’t breathe, a sickening, oppressive weight pushing down on my shoulders.
I don’t want to think about him anymore.
“Mallary?” Henri’s voice is small.
“One second.” I set my head down. My hands are still stretched across the white keys, frozen in the exact position to play the last notes, over and over again, if I wished.
I suck in as much air as I’m able, expanding my lungs until my chest burns. A slow exhale through my nose. When I look up again, I smile at Henri. “Sorry, I got carried away.”
“I liked that song.”
“It’s Rachmaninoff.”
“Could I play it?”
“Maybe someday. I don’t have the music for it.”
He kicks his legs back and forth, restless, and it’s so childish, I’m struck by his innocence. A few years younger than Arnie was—
“You could show it to me,” he says.
“Maybe.”
I can tell there’s more he wants to say. So I wait.
“Do you think you can bring me some new music?”
“We’re working on something new right now.” On top of the scales we drill to warm up, we’ve been working through the beginning of Chopin’s Waltz in A minor—ahead of curriculum, may I add, even if we’ve slowed the tempo down a smidge.
He frowns a little. “But if you bring some new music, then my parents won’t say no.”
“What would you like?”
After a second, his eyes widen, like he hadn’t considered he would actually be given the choice.
“How about this,” I say as I stand. His last teacher’s sheet music is crammed into dozens of folders, spilling out onto the table, loosely organized by difficulty.
I riffle through the papers, trying to find something not over a century old.
“I can look online tonight to find a few things that might work. There are a few pieces I learned at about your skill level—”
The words die on my lips.
“Where did this come from?”
On top of the pile is a single sheet, handwritten. Musical staffs drawn out in ink, a few scrawled notes in the margins. A few dozen measures. There’s no title, the only word written out above the staff Andante.
It seems to be a simple piece, only taking up the one side of the sheet of paper, no tricky runs or changes in key.
Henri can’t answer me, because he doesn’t know what I’ve found.
It wasn’t here earlier. I don’t remember seeing it. But there it was, right on top.
Like it’d been left for me to find.
Who would—?
Just as my heart drops, Henri comes up right next to me, peering over to see what’s in my hand. He shrugs. “I don’t know. Can we play it?”
A sour taste is settling onto my tongue, but I can’t say no
It’s a piece of paper.
I know it wasn’t here before.
We sit together at the bench, but he doesn’t attempt to play the notes, not even as my left hand brings forth the first chord. He watches in silence as I slowly parse my way through the first few lines.
It’s a waltz.
Andante.
My fingers feel clumsy, too large for the keys, my left hand finding the chords, while my right finds the melody.
Locking into place too easily within only a minute.
Like I know this song. It’s familiar, the lilt from left to right, the minor key, the slow build of what can only be anguish.
The notes are angry, despondent, rising inside of me like water slowly boiling over, a tide returning too suddenly to the shore.
Only thirty or so measures, the tune lasts no more than a minute, but by the end my mind is screaming at me, this strange deja vu so strong I know I’ve done this before.
A dull ache blooms behind my eyes.
The end is abrupt, an unwritten caesura.